A PrincetonPlainsboro Christmas Carol
by Lord Hoth
Summary: During the events of Merry Little Christmas, House takes a chemically induced vacation from reality. While there, he has some unexpected visitors that take him on a very strange journey.
1. Prologue

It was quite possibly the worst soup he'd ever made.

A pit lined with rotten-smelling, bubbling acid.

A boiling cauldron of pure stink.

A cocktail of bitterness.

A cocktail . . . that's what it was. A cocktail. But what was in it?

Greg House tried to move back in time, to go back and remember what he'd put in the soup. The odd thing was, he couldn't remember making any soup.

But like every great scientist, Greg House had a method for filling in empty spaces. He took the areas around the empty spaces: the before and the after. And he reasoned. He deduced. He played with puzzle pieces.

He played with all the puzzle pieces in existence until one fit. And if one didn't fit just right, he made his own puzzle piece. One that would fit perfectly and elegantly in the space.

The answer came to him with that thought. The cocktail had been his own creation. If Greg House had it in him to create anything over the past few hours, it would have a singular, solid purpose.

It would make the pain go away.

He remembered what was in the cocktail, and it gave him a thrill. It thrilled him because it had worked. Like almost every great experiment he'd created, the potential benefits had far outweighed the potential risks.

The cauldron was in his stomach. And now, working its way through his bloodstream.

It was a cocktail of oxycodone and alcohol.

And it was beautiful.

Some time later. Seconds. Minutes perhaps. Hours possibly. Could be days. Or even months. All Greg House knows is that it is Christmas.

He knows this because he senses the presence of cheery, decorative lights. He can feel them shining through the windows, gleaming on his retinas, burning his skin. He feels them like a burn victim feels flames kissing his flesh, even though most of the nerves have already been burned away.

Much to his chagrin, that train of thought takes off and brings him at locomotive speed to a related thought.

The last burn victim he'd treated. Damned if he could remember his name. Kid had a seizure and got out of control on an ATV. Big explosion. Seratonin storm. Lots of guilt-ridden, whiny parents.

Greg House rarely has any kind of emotional attachment to anyone, much less his patients. But his special cases—the puzzles he spends hours solving—are burned into his brain. His many triumphs are enshrined in the back of his mind, where he can review them, revel in them, and learn from them. The same goes with his relatively small number of defeats. Unfortunately, that means that the patients are enshrined there, too. Forever.

The patients are there, waiting behind locked doors, in case there is ever anything else to be learned from them.

Somewhere, a lock clicks and a door opens. House feels a vague sense of misgiving. Somehow, seratonin-storm-burn-victim-kid had gotten out from behind his door.

And now someone was in his head, opening locks, letting more people out.

Footsteps around him. Someone was inside. Either the apartment or his brain. He couldn't tell. But one thing was certain. Like a rampaging systemic disease, the intruder would not stay hidden for long.

Not from Greg House.


	2. The Visitor

It's still Christmas.

House sits in his favorite chair, strumming his guitar, trying to string together as many annoying yuletide carols as possible in an impromptu medley.

There is a loud knock at the door to his apartment.

"Go away!" House answers, and goes back to plucking.

The knock persists, messing with the musician's concentration. Heaving a sigh of irritation, House gets up to drive the intruder away.

As though reading his thoughts, the door bursts open and the intruder struts in as though arriving at a party where he is the guest of honor.

"Hello, Doctor," the familiar voice says.

"Oh dear God."

Standing tall and proud, garbed in a white hospital gown, is Kalvin Ryan, flamboyant photographer, HIV infectee, and, until his highly dramatic stint at PPTH, a carrier of equinococosis parasitic cysts.

"How the hell did you get into my apartment?" House wants to know.

"Relax, relax." Kalvin tries to make him comply with broad hand gestures. "Everything's going to be just fine."

House shifts his weight and grips his new metal cane. If this guy was crazy enough to break into his apartment, House could only imagine what else he was capable of. "Look, I don't wanna rain on your holiday parade, but I'm not in the mood for company tonight. So just be on your way and you won't have to meet my new friend." He waves the cane in the air. "He's considerably more ill-tempered than his older brother."

Kalvin's only response is a self-indulgent laugh. "Oh. You're so much funnier when I'm not depending on you for my life."

House cocks his head to the side, analyzing Kalvin from a different angle. "You seem lucid. What drugs has party-boy been popping tonight?"

"Honey, right now, I'm not the one with the drug problem." Kalvin points to something on the other side of the room.

House follows his finger and is boundlessly surprised to see . . . himself. His own body, wearing the same clothes he was wearing now, lying in a stupor on the apartment floor.

Kalvin giggles. "You see, Doctor House, tonight is different. Tonight, I don't need your help. You need my help."

The very idea brings a half-smile to the doctor's face. "I may be involved in a drug-induced hallucination right now. I may even be at a moral and spiritual low point in my life. But I've still got a long way to fall before I'm at a point where I need _your_ help." House twirls his cane menacingly. "Now. Go away."

Kalvin laughs again. "My dear doctor, do you really think that you can hurt me with _that_?"

House shrugs. "Check the scoreboard. The Canes are 1-0. 2-0 if you count the time they knocked your dad out. If I were you, I'd wait til next season to try and make a comeback."

"Doctor House, you can't hurt me with your cane because I can't be hurt. I can't be hurt because I'm not tangible. I'm not tangible because I'm not Kalvin Ryan."

"Oh boy."

"Do you know who I am?"

"Let me guess. The Easter Bunny?"

"Funny. But, no." Kalvin spread his arms wide, and a strange white mist seemed to hang from the sleeves of his white hospital gown. "I am—the Ghost of Christmas Past." He finished with a bow and a flourish.

"Riiiiight."

Kalvin almost looked hurt. "You don't believe me?"

"Whether or not I believe you is irrelevant. Whether or not your statement is true is irrelevant. The only thing that's relevant is: you're not welcome here. This is my apartment. I don't care if you're the Ghost of Christmas Past, or Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, or an Angel of the Lord. You're annoying. Leave now or suffer the consequences."

"Okay. I'll leave. But only if you leave with me."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"What if I made it a little easier to get around?"

"Got a one-horse open sleigh parked out there?"

"Not exactly." With another annoying flourish, Kalvin—or the Ghost of Christmas Past—waved his hand and House's new cane slipped from his fingers.

The doctor bent to pick it up and felt something strange. Cautiously, he put a little more weight on his right—

And found himself standing on two legs.

Even stranger, he reached for the place where a big empty hole in his leg should be and found . . . a thigh muscle.

"Ooookay. I think I'm ready to give you the benefit of the doubt."

Kalvin grinned. "I knew you'd see it my way." He stretched out an arm. "Now, take my hand."

"I think that might be carrying it a bit too far."

"Oh, come on."

Experimentally, House extended an arm. But instead of grabbing Kalvin's hand, he swatted at it, and found that his arm passed through that of his former patient, as though nothing was there.

"Okay. Check on the being intangible thing."

Kalvin grinned. "Are you ready?"

"Do I have a choice?"


	3. Christmas Past

Miles away and years past. It is still Christmas.

House takes in his new surroundings, recognizes them immediately. Then, he proceeds to hop on one foot. His right foot. "Okay. How did you do that?"

"I'm the Ghost of Christmas Past, remember? I can take you to visit any Christmas past. In mind. Or in body."

"So," House gestures to the small Christmas tree at the center of the small family room in which they are currently standing. "I can interact with my surroundings?"

"Oh, no no no no no." Kalvin shakes a finger. "That would be very against the rules. Here, you're just as intangible as me. But you can watch."

House crossed his arms. "We'll see."

As they watch, a boy of about ten sneaks into the room. Unaware of his spectators, the boy creeps toward the tree and picks up the first present he sees. Holding it to his ear, he shakes it softly.

"Oh—my—stars," Kalvin all but squeals. "Is that you?"

"Ssshhh."

"You're adorable."

House rolls his eyes.

The young boy completes his perusal of the presents, then steals quietly back to his room.

"You little scamp."

"Shut up," House whispers, then immediately wonders why he's whispering. "Christmas morning is in two hours. How long are we going to be standing here?"

"Two hours, ya say?" Kalvin snaps his fingers and the hands of the clock on the wall suddenly speed up. Two hours pass in moments. The boy is back in the living room, this time without stealth.

"It's here! It's time!" he yells. "It's time to open presents. Can I go first?"

The boy's parents are hot on his heels. "Of course you can, dear," his mother says.

The boy unwraps his first gift. He tears the paper off to reveal the box of a telescope. He holds it up with a self-satisfied smile.

"Do you like it, Greg?"

"Of course I do, Mom. Thank-you!"

"You don't seem very surprised," his father said.

The boy cast a glance in his direction. "I'm surprised, Dad."

Mom was reaching for one of her gifts, but Dad's eyes were still on the child as he intently studied the box. "You probably knew you were getting a telescope. But how did you know it was in that box?"

"I didn't," the boy said innocently. "I just grabbed the first box I saw."

The father regarded the son quietly for a moment, then said, "Son, I don't understand why you feel the need to lie to us on Christmas."

"John. Please."

"You snuck down here last night so you could give it a shake. You waited for weeks, but you just couldn't wait a few more hours."

The boy finally met his father's stare. "Okay. So I shook it. What's the big deal?"

"The big deal is that you have no respect for us."

"John. It's Christmas."

"That's right, it's Christmas. And you'd think our son could keep with the spirit of the holiday and just for once not try to play us for fools."

The boy shot his father a puzzled look. "Oh, please. You have about as much Christmas spirit as Mom has testosterone."

The father was on the verge of a response, but the mother spoke up. "Okay, you two. It's Christmas morning and I will not have you ruin it." Her tone softened. "John. Open your first present, dear."

The father reached under the tree, and the Ghost turned to House.

"Wow," was all he could say.

House's expression was unreadable, but he was still observing the scene.

"And I thought my dad was bad," the Ghost said.

House spoke matter-of-factly. "He wasn't a bad father. He had his ways. I had mine."

"What else did you guys clash over?"

The doctor looked at him bemusedly. "You're the Ghost of Christmas Past. Don't you know?"

"Unfortunately, that limits me to _Christmases_ past," the Ghost said. "The rest of the year is out of my jurisdiction

"We serve a just God after all."

"Come on. We've got a lot of stops to make," Kalvin practically sang.

House rolled his eyes and followed.


	4. A Hand with the Ice Man

Moments and years later, the pair finds themselves in a bar, lit up, sporting wreaths, holly, and mistletoe. Holiday music plays in the background, adding to the noises of young men and women talking loudly.

The Ghost smiles and takes a seat at the bar, motioning to the bartender. "I'd offer you a drink, but I'd say you've had enough for tonight."

"Not this Christmas." House puts his fingers in his ears. "Kinda loud in here, isn't it?"

The Ghost laughs. "You think so? You didn't mind so much when you were in college."

The doctor looks around, recognition creeping over his face. "Oh no. This isn't…?"

Kalvin grins. "Oh yes. It is…"

House turns his head to look behind him and finds a familiar scene.

Seated around a table, there is a group of college students playing poker. Drinks are everywhere, and attractive young women mill about, playing sycophants to the card players. Most of the table is taken up by heavily-built guys wearing football sweatshirts. There are two, more compact young men staring them down. The smaller one is visibly nervous. The taller one looks like a block of ice in the arctic, posture erect, steely cold eyes staring straight at his opponents.

All watch with fascination as, one by one, the football players fold. Now there are only two left in the hand: the largest football player, and the ice man.

"You're running dangerously low on chips there, my friend," the ice man observes in a bass voice. "I'd cut out while you still could if I were you."

The big guy stares at him, unfazed. "You're bluffing, stick-boy. There's no way your hand is that good."

The ice man blinks for a moment, an expression of mixed pity and bemusement. He turns to his nervous looking friend. "Notice he called me 'stick-boy.' Now that could either be a reference to me being a lacrosse player, or it could also be a reference to the fact that I don't inject myself with anabolic steroids before practices, and therefore don't have arms the size of oak branches and testicles the size of…"

"I get it!" the smaller one says. "I get it, G-Man. I think he gets it, too."

The football player looks very angry, but makes no move to get out of his seat. "You talk big. But I know little stick-boys can't back it up. I'll raise." He slides the last of his chips into the pile.

Ice Man gives him a winning half-smile. "In the name of stick-boys everywhere, I'll raise your raise." He offers a good chunk of chips from his substantial pile and stares straight into the bigger man's eyes. "Well?"

"How am I supposed to match that? I already told you I'm not betting my car."

"Well, let's make it interesting then. If you lose, all you have to do is one thing."

"Oh, and what's that?"

"Say, 'Football sucks your giant crosse, O Mighty Stick Behemoth.'"

Football Player slams his hands on the table. "Say what now?!"

"Would you like me to write it down?"

The smaller guy looks as though he's about to wet himself.

For a moment, the two stare each other down. Even the Ghost, watching from across the bar, mouth open, would swear that a fight is about to break out. Then, through clenched teeth, the football player says, "Okay."

The room around them gets quiet. Teeth still clenched, Football Player says. "I see your raise."

Ice Man cocks his head to one side and says, "I call. Whaddya got?"

Football Player grins and throws down his cards. "Four of a kind, Stick-Boy."

Behind him, the other football players laugh and high-five each other. The little guy starts to sweat. Football Player reaches for the pot.

"Uh uh uh," Ice Man says. He lowers his own cards. "Straight flush."

The cacophony stops, and Football Player looks, mouth agape at the table. He grabs the cards. "It can't be! You cheated somehow."

Ice Man raises his arms. "Check me."

Two other guys pat him down, but find nothing. They shrug and throw up their arms at the other player helplessly.

Football Player looks as though he's about to gag. "You—I—what was it?"

"Crandall, write it down for him."

"Here!" The little guy slides a piece of paper across the table.

Football Player picks it up. He screws up his face for several seconds.

"Do it," Ice Man orders.

"Football sucks your giant crosse, O Mighty Stick Behemoth."

Ice Man cannot help but grin as a cacophony of laughter erupts all around the bar. People begin milling about again. Money changes hands.

Suddenly, powerful arms grab the smaller guy. "You enjoyed that a little too much, Stick Boy."

Another arm grabs those arms, and the assailant now stares into the Ice Man's cold, blue eyes.

"Santa doesn't like sore losers," the bass voice said.

The assailant raised an arm to swing, but another voice stopped him. The big football player. The one who lost.

"Let him go. They won fair and square."

Reluctantly, the attacker backs off. The big one stares into Ice Man's eyes.

"Nice bluff," he says begrudgingly and points an index finger into Ice Man's chest as he moves off. "I'll see you here on New Year's Eve. Your money is mine."

"I look forward to it," Ice Man says quietly.

Everyone else moves away, and Ice Man straightens his smaller companion's jacket. "Crandall. Get ahold of yourself. You're sweating like an elf in the Sahara."

Crandall nods as Ice Man pats him—hard—on the back and gathers up his chips. "Start the car. And get a couple of those sluts that were sitting on our laps earlier and see if they wanna go with us."

Crandall nods.

Across the bar, the Ghost is shaking his head. "And I thought you didn't know how to party. You really did have some Christmas spirit at one time." He turns to find the doctor sipping from a glass. "Hey! Where'd you get that?"

"One of the regulars here used to buy a shot every night for his dead wife. I didn't see her in here, so I thought I'd help myself."

"Put that down!" the Ghost orders. "We're leaving."

"Okay, okay."


	5. A Gift

In the midst of a blizzard; snow as far as the eye can see.

"That was an awfully nice thing you did for your buddy," the Ghost observed.

House was sliding and spinning on the ice, stumbling and grinning, enjoying his newfound mobility.

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Yeah. I heard you," House said as he tried a 180º. "I didn't do anything. Those guys were all talk. They wouldn't have hurt Crandall or me."

"That's not the way I saw it. That guy was ready to deck you one. And you knew it. You were completely prepared to take a punch for your friend. And you won't even admit it."

House suddenly slid forward like an ice skater, did two clumsy spins and wobbled back to stand face-to-face with the Ghost. "If Crandall had gotten knocked out, I would've had to drive him to the hospital. And that would have seriously cramped my style. Happy now?"

The Ghost shook his head. "You know what your problem—." His accusation was cut short as a snowball hit him in the head. "Hey!"

House laughed and picked up another one. As he did so, however, Kalvin snapped his fingers and they were in a new place.

"Do you recognize it?" the Ghost asked as he surveyed the narrow corridor, dotted with numerous doors.

"Yeah. It's my dorm at the University of Michigan."

They stopped short as a beautiful, young woman came down the hall. House cast an appraising glance in her direction and prepared a witty excuse for why he was in the hall. The girl, however, not only ignored him but walked right _through_ him.

House spun around and watched, following her every movement.

"Who is _that_?" Kalvin asked, impressed.

House shook out his head and followed after her. "She looks familiar."

The girl stopped at one door and took a loud breath, straightened her hair and clothes. She knocked.

And knocked again.

The door opened just a crack.

"House!" the girl said in a rich voice. "Hi."

The door opened a bit more. "Uuhhhh. Hi. Errr. How's it going?"

"Good," the girl said, and hesitated. "Do you think I could come in for a minute?"

"Ahhh." The man inside turned back to look inside his room, and there was the sound of objects clattering around. "Well, actually, I'm writing a paper and….doing a couple of experiments and….ya know, room's a mess. So….no." He smiled theatrically for a moment, then fixed her with his cool, observant gaze.

"Okay, well. I got you this." The girl pulled a small wrapped package from under her coat and offered it to him. "Merry Christmas," she said softly, putting on her most charming smile.

"Oh. Um. Okay. Hold on." The door slammed and the girl started. More noises of clattering came from within the room, as well as what sounded like glass shattering. A moment later, the door cracked open, and an arm reached out, deftly snatching the package from the girl's hand. The door closed again.

The girl hesitated, then called out. "House!"

"Thank you!"

"I thought maybe I could come in for a few minutes. Maybe you could show me your experiments."

"No," came the voice from inside. "They're um…they're top secret."

"Is there someone else in there?"

"No." The voice sounded startled. "Just me and my experiments."

More clattering.

"Okay. Well." The girl sighed, her face downcast. "Merry Christmas."

"Yeah. Merry Christmas, Alicia."

"It's Lisa."

"Oh. Yeah. Lisa. See you in class tomorrow."

"We're on winter—," Lisa began, but found her voice drowned out by more noise from inside the room. "Break," she finished softly. She stared at the door sadly. Head down, she turned and made her way quickly down the hall.

House watched, frowning, as she wiped her eyes and walked through him.

"Dude," Kalvin said. "You couldn't let her in for five minutes?"

House was staring thoughtfully at the girl, getting smaller down the hallway. "Shut up."

"Dude, I'm gay, and I woulda hit that."

House looked at him and made a mocking face. "Dude. You'd hit anything as long as it was wiped properly."

The Ghost made a sick face. "Come on. We've got one more stop to make."

"Okay," House said. "Let's get this over with."


	6. BreakIn

Walking in the endless blizzard, the Ghost addressed his companion, who stared pensively into the white.

"Do you remember what you were doing last Christmas?"

"As I recall," the doctor said absently. "I injected a Munchausen's patient with colchicine, gave her the gift of an accurate diagnosis, and spent the rest of the night at the horse races."

"And the Christmas before that?"

"Wilson and I sat around eating Chinese food. Why?"

"Just curious. You don't find it significant at all that Wilson chose to spend Christmas with you rather than his family?"  
"Well, he is Jewish."

"Ahh ha. Well, here we are. Our last stop."

House blinked and suddenly he was standing on a city street in front of a large home.

"Come on." The ghost walked into the yard. "Let's go inside."

House watched him walk through the wall, then followed after him.

They entered a well-furnished bedroom. The closet was open and various items were being thrown out of it. House dodged a picture frame.

The door burst open and James Wilson, still wearing his lab-coat, stormed in.

"House!" he called out angrily.

A full-grown Greg House--closer to the present, but still younger, clean-shaven, and on two legs--peeked out from the closet. "Yeah?" He went back to throwing things out.

Wilson's expression of mixed anger, frustration, and helplessness was funnier from this angle. "What are you doing here?"

House looked out long enough to say, "Going through your stuff."

Wilson exhaled at length. "May I ask why you're going through my stuff?"

House peeked out and feigned a thoughtful expression. "Mmmm….none of your business."

"None of my business??!! I get a phone call from my wife that someone's broken into our house. She's freaked, ready to call the cops. The only thing that stopped me from calling the cops was the realization that _you_…" He broke off to catch his breath and his temper. "You left the office early. So I thought for one crazy second that maybe you…"

"It must have been longer than a second if you didn't call the cops."

"You…._yooou_…..!!" Wilson threw up his hands in frustration, then lowered them helplessly. "Have you ever heard of anything called…I dunno…respect for another person's privacy?"

A pair of shoes flew past. House looked out. "I've heard of the idea. Peace on Earth. Goodwill toward men. Nice ideas on paper, but…" He screwed up his face. "Kinda unrealistic don't you think?"

"Well, for you, yes."

"Relax." House stepped out of the closet, dusting off his hands. "I was just doing a little inventory."

"Oh. Well. That's interesting. You're a year behind on your paperwork for the department, but you decided it was a good idea to keep a list of my personal belongings."

House nodded. "Yup. And your wife's, too."

Wilson buried his head in his hands. "My wife is gonna kill me."

"Oh, grow some cajones," House said.

"She's already uncomfortable around you."

"So get a new wife. One that loves me as much as you do." House was heading for the door.

"Oh, that's funny. Where are you going?"

House jerked a thumb toward the exit. "I obviously can't be here when your wife gets in. She'll kill me." He turned and walked out.

Wilson picked up a couple items, set them aside, and followed after his friend.

"Can you at least tell me why?"

"Why what?" House opened the front door.

And there, in the doorway, hands on her hips, stood Stacy Warner.

"He's getting you a Christmas present," she said to Wilson. "He wanted to make sure you didn't already have one."

Wilson was absolutely befuddled. "You….you got me a present?"

House put his finger to his lips. "Ssshh. Now you've spoiled the surprise!"

Stacy shot him her trademark disapproving look. "Let's go, Greg."

House was halfway across the yard before Stacy said, "Wilson, I'm sorry."

Wilson held up his hands in a "no big deal" gesture and then the two were gone.

The door shut and the curtains parted so those inside could watch House's car light up and take off down the road. Wilson stared after the disappearing lights, and, amidst his look of frustration and anger, a smile slowly crept across his face.


	7. Foreman's Dream

Hours or perhaps years later, House's eyes open, and he finds himself lying on his own couch, back in his apartment. He sits up, taking in his surroundings. He reaches down to pat his leg and breathes a sigh of relief when he feels the familiar hole in his thigh.

"Back in the present," he mutters, reaching for his cane. "Hallucinations over." He stands up and walks around the room.

And almost trips over something on the floor.

House looks down to find his body, still lying in the same place, still in a drug-induced stupor.

"Awww, crap," he mutters.

Then, a noise from the adjoining room.

The doctor looks to find the kitchen lit up brightly, and limps hesitantly toward it.

Only to find that his kitchen has been laid out in an elaborate feast.

House surveys the scene. There are at least half a dozen huge entrees and numerous side dishes, steaming or chilling, placed end to end, and sometimes stacked on top of one another, in every corner of his kitchen.

The man tending the stove turns to face House, but he would be unmistakable from any angle. Clad in a green jumpsuit and gold apron, 400 pounds heavy, with a turkey leg in one hand and a spatula in the other . . .

"I think you took a wrong turn," House advises his visitor. "The stockings are hung by the chimney with care, just like the instructions said. But, from the looks of it, you might wanna lay off the milk and cookies this year. There's some low-fat nut clusters in the cabinet if you want."

George Hagel smiles and speaks in his calm, rich voice. "Doctor House. I must say, I love what you've done with the place. But I had to make a few adjustments to the kitchen. After all, what's Christmas without Christmas dinner?"

"That's what this is? I was expecting homeless people to be lined up outside."

"Oohohoho." George dumps the contents of one of the stovetop pans—what looks to be sweet potatoes—onto a plate and carries them to the table. "It sounds like I'm just in time."

"Just in time for what?"

"You haven't figured it out yet?" George spreads his flabby arms proudly. "I'm the Ghost of Christmas Present."  
"Well in that case, I hope you're in time. That sounds like a gig where punctuality is important."

George takes a bite of his turkey leg. "How right you are."

"But, wait," House says. "How can you be a ghost? Last I checked, you have at least a couple more months before you die of lung cancer."

"By your infallible medical calculations. But that's my own problem. Does it really matter to you if I'm dead right now or not?"

House shrugs. "I'm curious."

"Your enduring concern for your patients blows me away." George takes a spoon and stirs another bowl. "But just to indulge your curiousity, I'll tell you. As a practical matter, I'm not really George. I'm a reflection of George."

"You're a reflection," House says dubiously. "So where's the mirror?"

"Last I checked, it was passed out on the living room floor."

House casts a brief glance over his shoulder, realizes how pointless it is, then turns his attention back to the Ghost. "So, let me guess. You're gonna take me to Bob Cratchett's house so I'll see what a miser I've been and start giving back to the community."

George pops a sweet potato. "Close, but no."

"You're gonna show me two children named Poverty and Syphilis so I'll change my cynical ways and start showing compassion for a lot of people I'll never meet."

George laughs. "I'm not about that."

"You're going to take me to Cuddy's house so we can watch her get undressed?"

"Nope," George answers through a mouthful of sweet potato.

House shrugs. "So what are we gonna do?"

The Ghost pulls a chair up to the table and grins from ear-to-ear. House visibly winces as his guest lowers his large form into the chair. "I," George says. "Am going to eat. You'll find everything you need . . . in this." He grabs a giant bowl of red jello and hands it to the doctor.

"Should I dive in?"

"Think of it as my crystal ball."

Sighing helplessly, House peers into his reflection in the dessert. Images play inside the jello, and House squints, trying to see inside. He blinks, and suddenly finds himself inside the image.

"Whoa," House says, looking around his new surroundings. "Cool trick."

"Thank-you," the Ghost says from behind him, startling the doctor.

"So, where are we?"

The Ghost points over House's shoulder, and he turns to look. There, lying in bed, half conscious, is Eric Foreman, dressed in—

"Fur-trimmed red pajamas??" House says, choking back laughter. "Oh, I can't wait to get back to work." He pauses, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "He's gonna wonder how I found out."

"His girlfriend got them for him," the Ghost says.

"The nurse from Pedes. Well, she doesn't like me, so he obviously wouldn't believe that she told me."

"What do you think he's dreaming about right now?"

"Probably getting naughty with his favorite nurse."

"Not for another hour. Go take a look into his eyes."

"Are you serious?"

"What are you afraid of?"

House shrugs. "Good point." He makes his way toward his half-awake employee and peers into his face. "No dancing sugarplums. But, wait…"

Somehow, inside Foreman's eyes, he can plainly see an image, just like in the jello. Somehow, he sees Foreman in Foreman's mind's eye, talking to House himself in Cuddy's office.

"He's dreaming about when he broke into Cuddy's drawer for me the other night."

House watches the familiar scene play out in Foreman's head with the unfamiliar feeling that he was somewhere he really shouldn't be. Himself, heckling Foreman as the neurologist jimmies the lock on Cuddy's desk.

"Only an idiot goes to prison for being stubborn," Foreman advises his boss.

The dream-House responds, "Only an idiot settles for mediocrity. An idiot would have let John Henry Giles kill himself."

In the dream, the door bursts open, and Foreman's old mentor, Marty Hamilton comes in. "Are you going to let him talk about me that way, Eric?"

Foreman sighs. "He's right. I mean, Marty, you helped me take my first baby steps." He pauses, as though unsure that he wants to finish his statement. "But House saves people that no one else can save. I don't want to be just another run-of-the-mill neurologist. I want to be extraordinary." He looks at his jonesing boss. "Learning from you is the best gift this universe could have offered me."

"You can't give him those pills!" Marty said angrily.

"With all due respect, sir," Foreman replies. "We're far past the point where you can give me orders." With that, he yanks the drawer open, and millions of Vicodin pills flood out, covering the room like a blanket of snow.

The dream-House begins to eat the pills like a starving dog. Marty Hamilton, drowning in Vicodin, screams for help. Dream-Foreman walks out of the office, unaffected by either the storm of pills or his old mentor's pleas for help.

Foreman's eyelids flutter and close.

House is back in Foreman's room with the Ghost.

He turns to the Ghost and says, in his teenage surfer voice, "That was so cool. Any chance you could stop by more often?"

George gives a long, booming laugh, then says, "Nope."

House frowns.

"Come on," George says, munching on his turkey leg. "More have we to do."


	8. Christmas Present

The pair arrives at a homeless shelter downtown.

House half-chuckles and looks at the ceiling. "I wonder who we're visiting now."

"Your good friend and mine, Doctor Cameron," the Ghost says, heading towards the small Christmas tree. "Come on."

House follows the ghost over to where Allison Cameron, wearing a Santa hat, is handing out wrapped packages to children.

"Couldn't we wait a couple hours on this one?" House asks. "I want to see what kind of dreams _she_ has about me."

"I'm sure you do," the Ghost says. "But this is it."

The intangible pair watches as all of the kids get gifts, open them, and spread around the room to enjoy them. Cameron watches with that puppy-dog smile, and then sits down to stare at the lights.

A boy of about eight comes up to her and tugs on her sleeve. She turns and smiles again. "Yes? What's your name?"

"My name is Greg," the boy responds.

The brief hiccup in her joyous expression is worth a million dollars.

She resumes her holiday demeanor. "What is it, Greg? Don't you like your present?"

"Yeah," Greg says. "I like it. But, I had a question I wanted to ask you."

"Okay. Shoot."

"Why are you here?"

Cameron looks confused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you don't look poor. Don't you have a mommy or daddy to spend Christmas with?"

"My mommy and daddy live far away. We couldn't be together this year, but I call them on the phone. And I sent them some presents through the mail."

"So you're all alone?"

"No, of course not. I'm here with you, Greg. And all these other kids."

"But, don't you have friends?"

"Well." Cameron seems genuinely caught off guard. "They're…they're with their families."

"What about a boyfriend?"

The immunologist grins. "No, I don't have a boyfriend."

"Is there a boy that you like?"

Her face is actually starting to color. "Well. Yes. I guess so. It's kind of complicated."

"Is he with his family?"

"No." For a moment, Cameron gets a far-off look in her eyes. "I don't know where he is. But I hope he's okay."

"I hope so, too."

Cameron looks down again and smiles. "Thank-you, Greg."

"Would you like to help me put this puzzle together? It's a snowman."

Cameron grins. "I'd love to." She takes his hand. "Come on."

The two wander off and House says, "Can I cry now?"

"If you want."

"Where to next?"

The Ghost snaps his fingers, and they are transported to a church.

House looks around. "What's this?"  
George points with his turkey leg. "Over there."

House's eyes trace down the aisle where he sees Robert Chase, standing, singing.

"He doesn't look like he's too filled with the spirit."

"He hasn't been for a long time," the Ghost answers.

The song ends and the priest begins a prayer.

Chase kneels with the rest of the congregation, and House can see him mouthing words, distinctly out of sync with the priest.

"What's he saying?"

The Ghost snaps his fingers and the rest of the church goes silent. Only Chase's muttering can be heard. The pair walk through the worshippers to stand next to Chase.

"And, Lord. Please be with House this Christmas. I mean, I know he hates everyone. Especially me."

"I don't hate you, you big baby."

"Sshhh!" the Ghost says.

"But he's going to have a rough time this Christmas. And, if at all possible, could you please find a way to make him not go to jail? I know he deserves it, and I know I don't deserve not to lose my job. But, I know that You have things set up the way they are for a reason. I kind of liked the setup You had going. And, he really is a good guy at heart. Not my will, but Thy will be done, Lord. Amen."

Chase opened his eyes and looked to the side, and, for a moment, House thought he was looking straight at him. But Chase simply turned his head back to the front.

"The whole prayer was for me?" House said in disbelief. "You're making this up."

"I wish I was." The Ghost of Christmas Present finished his turkey leg and threw the bone over his shoulder. "So. You wanna see what Wilson's up to?"

"Sure. Why not?"


	9. Christmas Dinner

The Ghost snaps his fingers, and they are in Wilson's hotel. The room is dark except for the TV. Wilson sits on the bed, trying to focus on the show, but his mind is clearly elsewhere.

"Nevermind," House says. "Let's go."

The Ghost holds up a finger. As they watch, Wilson picks up the phone, dials a number without looking, and waits patiently while it rings. After several long moments, he hangs up, shakes his head, and sighs.

"My heart bleeds. Can we go now?"

The Ghost licks his fingers. "Sure. Let's go have dinner."

Moments later, they are back in House's kitchen.

As George begins to chow down, the doctor surveys the scene. "Well, may as well make the best of this hallucination." He pulls up a chair and fills a plate.

Halfway through his first course, House stops, frowning. He puts his fork down.

"What's the matter?" George asks between bites. "Isn't the food good?"

"It's delicious," House answers, his voice sounding far off. "But…"

"But what?" the Ghost asks.

The realization comes as a surprise. "I'd rather be eating crappy Chinese food with Wilson."

"You're crazy, man," George replies, shoveling more food into his mouth. "Christmas is all about the food."

House is still staring past his head. Then, he drifts back and meets the Ghost's eyes. "No," he says, in the same voice he always uses when he has come to an epiphany. "It's not."

"Whatever," the Ghost says, but the word is barely intelligible through a mouth crammed with food.

"All right," House says. "It's time for the next part of the hallucination."

"Hey," the Ghost responds in irritation, tapping his chest with a chubby finger. "I'm in control of Christmas Present."

"No," the doctor replies. "You're not." He smiles, raises a hand, and snaps his fingers.

And everything goes dark.


	10. The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come

Moments or years later.

The darkness slowly gives way to dim light.

Leaning on his cane, Greg House finds himself in the middle of a cemetery.

"Uuhhh oh," he says. "I know where this is going."

He limps around, searching for any sign of life. "I know what's going on!!" he calls into the night. "I have read the book, ya know! You're not gonna scare me with this stuff." He keeps walking, turning circles. "Any minute now, I'm going to find…"

A crunch as his shoes touch concrete and pebbles.

He looks down, and even though he was expecting it, a chill runs down his spine.

A tombstone, carved with his name.

_Gregory House. 1959-2006._

"Oh, come on!" he yelled. "No inscription. None of my words of wisdom endured longenough to be carved into a piece of rock. What kind of lame future is this?"

"Yours," a familiar voice says.

House turns to find a figure, cloaked entirely in a flowing black robe that disguises its features.

"Let me guess. The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come."

"How clever of you to deduce such a thing," came the voice from under the hood.

House walks closer to it, examining it from every angle. "I know that voice. You're the guy who shot me."

"Am I?"

"Or, I guess, you're a reflection of the guy who shot me. Or…a reflection of the reflection….look, either way, you're wasting your time. I'm not afraid to die."

"I know you're not," the Ghost says. "But you should be."

"Why? Because I'll be plunged into the black abyss of eternal torture?" House smiles. "In case you hadn't noticed, this place isn't so great either. At least in Hell, you know where your next round of suffering is coming from. You don't have to worry about the one person in the world you halfway trusted stabbing you in the back. So . . ." He breaks off to catch his breath. "When you get to Hell, save me a seat in the back, would ya?"

The Ghost raises an arm to point at him with a long, skeletal finger. "Nothing I show you is going to make you believe in Hell or damnation. What I will show you is far worse. I will show you true suffering."

"Yeah?" House raises his cane defiantly. "Bring it on."

"As you wish." The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come twitched his skeletal fingers, and, somehow, House heard a finger-snap.

And they were off.


	11. Differential

The front sign for Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, lined in snow and lit up by multicolored lights, loomed above them.

"Let's go," the Ghost says. "Much to see."

House follows him through the front doors, past all the decorations, and into the elevator. The Ghost waves his hand, and without further adieu, they rise up, through the ceiling of the elevator, up the shaft, and to the next floor. They step through the closed doors.

The Ghost points. "Behold, the Department of Diagnostic Medicine . . . five years from when you left."

House walks down the hall, followed closely by the black specter. A few paces later, he stops, and does a double take. Up on the wall is a huge portrait of himself, looking positively dignified, holding his cane at his side. Below it, words were imprinted in stylish metallic letters. The words read:

"_Right and wrong do exist. Maybe there's no way you could know what the right answer is. That doesn't make your answer right or even okay. It's much simple than that. It's just plain wrong."_

_In Memorium of_

_Gregory House, M.D._

_A Man Who Never Gave Up On His Patients_

"See?" House said. "Now that's more like it."

He makes his way down to his office and pauses to look at the glass door.

"Eric Foreman, M.D.," he reads, and walks through the glass. "Very nice."

The setup of the room had changed little. The conference table was in the same place, spread with files and notes, and attended by three fellows.

The door swings open and Foreman, carrying a clipboard, wearing a grim expression, sweeps in.

"Okay, people," Foreman says, in a voice that somehow managed to sound both tough and friendly. "I don't have to tell you how serious this case is." He puts down the clipboard, picks up a black marker, and crosses to the white board. "I need your ideas. No matter how silly you might think they are. All of them. Let's go."

The fellows rattle off obscure diseases and Foreman begins scribbling. House watched him. He turns to the Ghost, smiling and motioning toward the scene. "Look at this guy. I'm halfway to impressed."

As the differential concluded, only two ideas remained. Foreman shook his head. "Impossible. Neither of those conditions explain all the symptoms."

"No, not impossible. Idiotic. Both of those ideas are idiotic," House says to Foreman, who ignores him.

"What about lupus?"

Foreman rolls his eyes.

"It's our best shot right now. The patient's getting worse. We need to start treatment immediately."

Foreman was staring into space. "Burton, go over to Immunology. Bring Dr. Cameron for a consult. I want her approval if we're going ahead with a lupus diagnosis."

Burton, a well-groomed young man, nodded, stood up, and left the room.

"You, go bring me the latest stats on the patient. You…" He rolls his eyes and blows out a breath. "Go to the patient's apartment and look for anything we might have missed."

"But, Doctor Foreman, we already…"

"So _look again_!"

The fellow gets his coat and hurries off. Foreman continues staring into space.

House walks around him. "Come on. You know lupus is a weak diagnosis. You never have a problem with thinking outside the box. What's clouding your judgment now?" He looked at the neurologist's far-off eyes. "Oh boy." He turns to the Ghost, slapping the air in frustration. "He knows the patient. He can't be impartial." House stared at the ceiling. "Now we have to count on Cameron for objectivity."

"Why don't we check on her?" the Ghost suggested.

"Okay. Let's do that."

The Ghost raises an arm to point…

"Aw geez." House heads out of the office.

Over in Immunology, Burton had caught up with Cameron.

"Dr. Cameron." The woman turns and House was taken aback. He'd never seen Cameron look so . . . detached.

"Dr. Foreman needs a consult. He wants your opinion before we go ahead with lupus treatment."

Cameron's eye-roll seemed to surprise House more than Burton. "It's not lupus. Haven't you people come up with anything else?"

"No," Burton says, sounding as though he'd been hit in the stomach. "That's why he's asking you. We've been through every disease we could think of."

"Right," House says.

"_Right_," Cameron says, assuming a brisk pace back toward Diagnostics. "You've scraped the bottom of the barrels. Seems to me the barrels were never too full in the first place."

Burton was rushing to keep up. "I know. It's frustrating for all of us. I know you must be going through a difficult time . . ."

"A difficult time is one thing," Cameron says. "Difficult times become more difficult when everyone else around you seems to have their head up their—"

"Doctor Cameron." Burton stands in front of her, forcing her to stop. He adopts an earnest expression. "This has been hard for all of us. Maybe tonight, we could talk about it . . . over dinner."

House raises his eyebrows and grins. Cameron, however, is not near so impressed.

"Burton, how do you ever expect to do anything for your patients when your mind is always on the next pair of panties you can scrape off your bedroom floor?"

"Doctor Cameron, it's not—."

"I know it's not. Not going to happen. So get your head in the case and out of my butt." She shoves a clipboard into his arms and walks off.

Burton watches her go, his expression one of sadness and confusion. "It's not like that," he finished quietly. The fellow turns and walks off in another direction.

House watches him, then looks at the Ghost, who can only stare at him with his cold, inexorable gaze. House makes a face.

"Nyuuuh. All right. All right. Come on."

He storms back down the hallway, the Ghost gliding after him.


	12. Descent

In the office, Foreman was standing straight and tall, staring out the window.

The door blows open and Cameron speaks without introduction. "Lupus is a poor diagnosis," she informs him coldly. "What about Guillain-Barre?"

"The progression is all wrong. And it doesn't explain the blistering."

"Or the necrosis."

"Have you got a better idea?"

Cameron sighs. "No."

In a moment, one of the other fellows enters the room. "The patient had an attack!"

"What do you mean _had_?" Cameron demands.

"It's over. The hospital chaplain closed the blinds, and it stopped. Some kind of reaction to the sunlight."

"Photosensitivity," Foreman says. "Yet another symptom that doesn't make any sense."

"Sure it does," House says. "Come on!"

"Sure it does," another voice echoes. All turn on as Chase enters the room, wearing a priest's outfit.

"Chase is the hospital chaplain?" House says in disbelief.

"He made another mistake," the Ghost informs him. "And this time you weren't there to bail him out of it."

House smacks himself in the forehead and faces the chaplain. "What's wrong with you? I stuck my neck out for you…I stayed on your case because I knew you had the potential to do something great! To be a great doctor! And now you're peddling testaments and empty assurances. All that time and talent, wasted!"

"Too late to make him feel good about himself now, House."

"Shut up!"

A nurse runs in. "Doctor Foreman! The patient is going into cardiac arrest!"

The doctors rush to the patient's room while House stares at the white board. "Photosensitivity is consistent with cutaneous porphyria. They ruled that out because of the neurological symptoms."

In the distance, the sound of the crash cart wheeling down the hall.

"They ruled out acute porphyria because of the necrosis." He looks at the ghost. "No one ever told them that a very small percentage of porphyria cases manifest with both sets of symptoms."

House reaches for the marker, but finds his hand passes through it. He grabs twice more, in vain. He stares bullets at the Ghost, but the spirit only stares back.

"Do something!" he shouts.

"I can't," the Ghost says. "I'm dead. And so are you."

House rushes out the office to the patient's room. Everyone bustles around as Cameron shocks the patient, tears streaming down her face. Chase stands in the corner, eyes closed, praying silently.

"Charging…." the nurse says. "Clear!"

The paddles give their shocks. The lines on the monitor jump, then flatten again.

"Crank it up!" Cameron shouts.

"You're at maximum!" Foreman tells her.

"I don't care. Increase the voltage."

"No," Foreman says. "Shock him again."

Tears drip off of Cameron's chin onto the blanket. She shocks the patient again. And again. And again.

"Foreman," House says. "Time of death."

"Burton," Foreman says. "Time of death."

Burton looks at Cameron, expression filled with concern and sympathy. Cameron can only stare down at the patient, choking back sobs.

"Burton!" Foreman orders. "Time of death."

"Time of death, 4:52 P.M.," Burton says quietly.

Cameron turns away, facing the wall. Burton goes to comfort her, but she shakes him off, violently.

* * *

Minutes later, the team stands in the office.

Foreman walks in, shakes his head. He walks into the back office, House's old inner sanctum, closes the door.

House and the Ghost follow him inside. There, sitting in a corner, Cameron cries in the dark.

"There wasn't anything you could do."

Cameron looks up at him. Her makeup is smeared and her face is twisted by despair. Even House is taken aback, having never seen such an expression on her face.

"No. There's nothing I could do. Nothing you could do. Nothing _those_ idiots could do." She points at the office.

"Don't blame them."

"Who _should_ I blame then?"

Foreman looks away, not knowing how to answer the question. Cameron buries her face in her hands. "Blame….us," she croaks.

"We had three days."

"_Three days!_ Three days should have been…" She trailed off. In a moment, the only noise in the room was that of her quiet sobs.

Foreman stands, staring at the opposite wall for a long time. Cautiously, House limps to his side and looks at his face.

His face is frozen in a thoughtful frown. Halfway down his cheek, a single tear creeps like a crippled animal toward the floor. "_If only_ he _was still here_ ," he whispers.

"I don't get it." House turns to the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. "I'm already dead. Who could have affected them all this much?"

The spirit raises an arm and points back to the patient's room.

Without hesitation, House walks straight through the walls, taking the shortest route to the patient's room.

He bursts through the wall, approaches the bed, and tears back the sheet.

And stumbles backward, dropping his cane.

"No. No. It can't be."

Lying in bed, face colored with porphyric bruises, is James Wilson.

"No." House blinks, trying to hold back tears. "No. I don't believe it."

The Ghost is at his side.

House turns on the ghost, his face contorting from sadness to rage. "You! This is _your fault_!" he snarls. He walks toward the spirit, who takes a couple steps back.

"You wanted this to happen! You'll never rest until you've made me suffer in every way imaginable! This was all YOUR IDEA!"

Somehow, his cane in his hand. With all his might, Greg House jabs his cane into the ghost's face. Somehow, it knocks the intangible being's cowl back.

To reveal a skull, naked of flesh.

Now the tears are streaming down. Now, House is not sure if the skull belongs to the shooter. Or to Wilson. Or even himself .

He backs away, eyes wide with horror, but still dripping.

"You'd love to blame me," the Ghost says in the shooter's voice. "Or anyone else. But, in reality, there's only one person who caused all this suffering." Slowly, he raises his arm again . . .

And House loses all control. Without fear for himself, for his leg, or for his soul, he attacks the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come like a crazed animal, wrestling the skeletal being to the ground, punching and tearing at it with all his might.

The last thing he sees is the black fabric of the Ghost's cloak.

Blackness.


	13. Epilogue

The blackness weakens. Lights peek through, gleaming on his skin . . .

Christmas lights.

Greg House opens his eyes.

It's still Christmas.

Greg House gets up off the floor, leaning his weight against the wall. He surveys the room until he's found his cane, retrieves it, and goes to the window.

He opens the window and looks down at the street.

Wilson's car is speeding away.

Staring down at the street, watching it fade into the distance, Greg House smiles.

* * *

Christmas Day. The office of Michael Tritter.

House's leg is throbbing. He's still a little nauseous from last night. But today, there are bigger things on House's mind than his pain.

Today, House is happy to be alive.

He opens the door, and limps to the desk of the man he hates the most.

"I'm ready," House says. "To take the deal."


End file.
